


Who We Are in the Dark

by LaKoda0518, WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, First Time, Flashbacks, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson Needs A Hug, John in Denial About His Sexuality, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Missing Scene, Nightmares, PTSD John, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Repressed John Watson, Sexuality Crisis, Sherlock Holmes Takes Care of John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Mess, Shower Sex, Smut, internal biphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaKoda0518/pseuds/LaKoda0518, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: John uses sex as a weapon, wielding it as a barrier of protection rather than face the truth. Sherlock is a more than willing target, choosing to bear the scars of the man he loves in order to keep him close. If Sherlock is only allowed a fraction of John, empty promises in the middle of the night, that is enough. Isn’t it?
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 125
Kudos: 110
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	1. The Great Game

The cab home is silent. What can we say? Thank you for trusting me with your life? For promising to follow me into the depths of oblivion? There’s an invisible line in the sand we crossed months ago. First with Jeff Hope; now with the promise to die at each other’s side with the squeeze of a trigger. There’s a mutual understanding between us — crackling electricity in the spaces between, but I can’t form any words that convey how I feel. Pure facts; that’s what I can do. Give me a crime, and I’ll effortlessly reveal how it took place. Give me emotion, and it’s an entirely different story. 

The first time either of us speaks is when we reach the flat.

“Tea?” I ask as I strip off my coat, carefully hanging it on the hook by the door, taking John’s as he passes it to me. The question sounds small in the space between us, a poor substitute for declarations of trust or expressions of gratitude. 

“No, thank you. I think — I think I want to go to sleep.” My heart sinks a little; not ready to be alone just yet. I nod, lingering in the kitchen as John makes his way up the stairs. The creaking of the boards beneath his feet sound loud in the narrow stairwell, and I count each of them until John is safely in his room. 

Hours later, I lie awake in my bed; staring at the ceiling. My body aches with exhaustion, but each time I close my eyes red dots dance behind my eyelids, and John stands before me, arms wrapped around Moriarty’s neck — prepared to give his life to save mine. 

My stomach lurches at the memory. The thought of John being Moriarty; manipulating me for months as I fell harder for him each day — it would have been too much to bear. It was almost a relief to see the Semtex strapped to his chest. Almost.

There’s a soft knock at the door. John doesn’t wait for me to answer before he slips through the doorway. I shuffle over and lift the covers to make room for him, breathing a small sigh of relief as he crawls in next to me. 

“Can’t sleep either?” He asks as he settles himself in, throwing one of the many pillows to the floor. 

“Obviously.” 

The word hangs in the air, a near-perfect echo of everything I refuse to say. We lie in silence; both in mutual acceptance of our reluctance to be alone. We need a reminder that we’re alive; no longer caught in Moriarty’s games. 

“When did he get you?” I ask, my voice soft against the pillow. 

“As I was leaving the flat. He drugged me with something.” 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It left my system pretty quickly.”

“That’s not what I meant.” 

His brow furrows slightly. 

“What did you mean?”

“You were kidnapped and strapped to explosives. Even for us, that’s not a normal day at the office. And you’re a veteran. Are you—“ I struggle to find the correct wording.“—emotionally okay?” The words feel thick in my mouth. It’s not what I mean to say. I want to ask him if it’s a danger night — if in a few hours I will have to save him from his screams. It’s happened before — nightmares that bleed through into reality. On those nights, I play the violin as loud as I can, trying to rouse him without him realising. Most nights it works, but this is not most nights. 

“Only you would say it like that.” He smirks, reaching a hand under his pillow to rest his head against. “I’m — I dunno. I feel weird. Like I can still feel it beneath my skin. I didn’t—” he sighs, his voice dropping to a murmur as if admitting defeat. “I couldn’t be alone.” 

I half-smile in agreement.

“It was like this in Afghanistan, sometimes. After a big battle, we’d all come back to camp, drinking and playing card games, not talking about the things we’d seen but knowing no-one wanted to be the first one to fall asleep. Something about almost dying means you need to prove you’re alive, y’ know?” 

I nod because I do. 

The silence stretches between us once again. We lie side by side, content to be in the warmth of each other's company. At some point, a leg crosses over the invisible border between us. Then an arm, and before I know it, we are wrapped around each other, boundaries blurred by the shadows of the night. 

“I thought I was going to lose you.” He says into my collarbone. My chin rests on his head, hair tickling my skin. It’s an odd yet welcome sensation, having him in my arms like this. I’m not quite sure what it means, but I don’t have much time to think about it before the moment shifts.

John tilts his head; his gaze thoughtful even if he doesn’t look me in the eyes. I can tell he’s studying my face and I can’t help the wave of self-consciousness that threatens to break over me as he dips his head back to my chest. At first, it feels like a form of retreat, a polite dismissal of thought, but then his lips brush over the hollow at the base of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. 

My breath hitches as he works his way up, exploring the sharp edges of my features with a concentrated effort. My skin tingles and my eyes slip closed as he continues along the invisible line of my jaw. This is forbidden territory for us, but something about the night makes it seem as if an invisible veil has been lifted. Mouth finds mouth and my brain nearly stutters to a halt. Kissing John is a lot like lighting a fire, the heat kindling somewhere deep in my belly as the tip of his tongue flicks out over my lips — sparking an intense flame of desire that threatens to consume me in an instant.

As John’s tongue teases my lips apart, a flicker of memory flashes to the forefront of my mind: John kissing Sarah. John holding Sarah and chuckling softly, his lips brushing over the shell of her ear as he had pulled her down on top of him. He hadn’t seen me that night, hidden in the shadows of the hallway, but I had seen him. I’d watched them, not for long, but enough to build quite a resentful outlook on the woman, regardless of how clever she might have proven to be.

At first, a fresh wave of jealousy washes over me as the memory twists in my mind’s eye, and I fight the urge to bite my lip. John does it for me, however, and the soft moan that slips from my throat seems to surprise us both. Is this what it felt like for her? Is this what it felt like for Sarah to have John Watson lavishing his full attention on her? A small part of me can’t help but wonder, if I hadn’t brushed off John’s obvious — yet completely ridiculous — attempt at flirting on the night we met, would it have been me that night on the sofa with him after the Black Lotus kidnapping? 

John's teeth scrape my lip again, teasing it between his teeth as he draws me back to reality. ' _Focus…'_ I tell myself, placing all of my attention on John. His hands are on me now: one cradled against the nape of my neck, one curved expertly around my hip. The pads of his fingers elicit little shocks of pleasure all over my skin as they begin to pry my clothing from my body. 

I let my tongue venture past my teeth, caressing John's cautiously, a little unsure just how much of me he actually wants as my body follows wherever he moves me. The result is more than satisfactory as a deep moan rumbles up through his broad chest. The sound is throaty and masculine, and I find that I'm desperate to hear it again. 

My fingertips tease the coarse hair at his belly, tracing nondescript patterns over the lightly furred skin, then dip along the waistband of his pants. Seeking silent permission, I smirk when he shivers. The little huff of breath against my lips, accompanied by a subtle nod, lets me know that he doesn’t mind. He’s already stripped me bare, so why should he? My pants, along with the t-shirt I’d removed before bed, are scattered lazily over the floor as we work together to add his to the mix.

A sharp intake of breath mingles with a laboured groan as our bodies slot together. It’s hard to say where mine ends and his begins. Hands rove over what seems like miles and miles of bare skin, the tension fading almost instantly as if an invisible glass has shattered between us. His body slides against mine in a luxurious rhythm, and it’s almost more than I can take. The way his lips brush over my eyebrow, the way his fingers dance over my ribs, it’s almost like our roles thus far have been reversed. All this time, I had considered myself to be a grand musician, plucking away at my violin at all hours of the night, but this time it’s different. This time it’s John. 

John wields the bow; I am the violin.

His heavy cock rests in the crease of my thigh, his hips rutting steadily against me, and my body practically sings for him. I surprise myself when my back arches involuntarily, pressing the length of my own erection against John’s belly in a desperate attempt to seek friction, and, once I’ve found it, the world around me seems to tilt upside down. 

“John…” I breathe, moaning and moulding the word into a prayer.

He shushes me. It isn’t stern or uncaring, but I obey, realising then how silent our encounter has actually been. Not a single word has been spoken until now, and I can’t help the curiosity that overthrows my pleasure. 

John notices; he always notices. 

Another sharp nip to my bottom lip draws me back to him once again and, just as I relent to kiss him back, he’s gone. My eyes snap open, searching for a split second, but he hasn’t gone far. He’s leaning over the edge of the bed, quickly sitting back up after retrieving a tube of lubricant from the bedside table drawer. _How did he know—?_ My brain strays once again, but I shrug it off as common practice between human males.

He flicks the lid open with his thumb in a rather fluid motion, almost as if he’s done it a million times — _which, he probably has —_ and drizzles some of the gel over his fingers. With a subtle flinch of his thighs tensing from what I assume to be the sudden coolness of the gel, he slicks his cock. The fingers of his left hand close perfectly around the thick base of his shaft and he drags his foreskin up and over his tip before drawing it back down again. 

His eyes flutter closed as my own rake over the full expanse of his naked body in the pale glow of the moonlight filtering in through the bedroom window. My mouth waters at the eroticism of the scene before me and I nearly miss the way he tilts the lubricant out for me to coat my hand. 

The chilly liquid pools generously in the centre of my palm, yet, even as a shiver makes its way through my own body, I still can’t take my eyes off of John. He’s beautiful like this, like some sort of mind-boggling enigma that I could explore every nook and cranny of and still never understand completely. I still don’t understand the meaning behind this unexpected yet fortunate turn of events, but I force the lingering shadows of doubt from my mind. From the subtle twist of his wrist on the upstroke to the gentle flick of his thumb over his slit, John Watson demands my undivided attention and he’s going to get it. 

  
  


*

  
  


I am woken by the mattress dipping as John perches on the edge of the bed, pulling his tee-shirt back on over his head. I reach out and touch the base of his spine, running my fingers over each vertebra and remembering the exact curve of his back as we’d come together — John’s fingers tangled with mine, our hands fisted firmly around our aligned lengths as he’d worked us both to orgasm. He jumps at the touch, turning guiltily as if he hadn’t expected me to wake up. 

“Good morning.” His voice is husky with sleep, and it sends a jolt of heat straight to my groin. Perhaps this is it; the start of a new chapter. Now, instead of ignoring the sparking electricity between us, we can acknowledge it — find comfort in each other rather than drowning in denial. I don’t know at what point John accepted that this was what he wanted, but I’m not going to complain. 

“Morning.” The word feels stale in my mouth — _morning breath, most likely —_ as John’s face contorts unusually, the guilt in his expression fading to something markedly uncomfortable.

“Listen, about last night—“ He takes a breath; I hold mine. “If you want that to be everything — just two people finding comfort in each other — that’s fine. It can stay in this room.” I frown. It doesn’t sound like a question directed at me; rather an assurance to himself that this is all it was. ‘ _Is that true?’_ I ask myself as the room seems to fade around me. _‘Was I just a casual fuck he wants to throw away without consequence?’_

“Is that what you want?” I murmur, my hand stilling on his back, frozen with uncertainty. His eyes drift to the carpet as he seems to consider the question.

“I dunno. Maybe. Yeah.”

I draw my hand back as if burnt. The spaces between the words feel devastatingly loud in the quiet of the bedroom; the meaning behind them echoing dreadfully in the hallowed halls of my Mind Palace.

“Okay. Very well, it can be — that.” It’s not okay, but I don’t know how to say that. How do you admit that the intimacy you shared was more than the other wants it to be? If he wasn’t emotionally invested, if he was just using me to get off — then how could I ask him to stay? 

“Yeah. Okay. Great.” He licks his lips as he stands, turning on his heel then back to me as he seems to waver for a brief moment before clearing his throat and turning away once again. The door shuts softly behind him as he leaves without another word. 

I should have known. I should have seen… John doesn’t understand. He was never allowed to ‘get over’ himself; he’s never acknowledged the attractions towards men he has — he just wants to indulge himself without having to think about it. He wants me — the late-night chases and the physical pull of desire that goes with it, but not _me._ He’s ashamed of admitting that we’re more than just bodies — more than just strangers coming together in the night. And that’s — fine. I can’t push — can’t make him face something he doesn’t want to, no matter how much I want it. And I want _all_ of him. I long for the casual affection of long term partners; stolen kisses in the stairwell and lingering touches as we pass in the kitchen. But I can’t have that. Not now. Maybe not ever. I’m not sure what I expected from John ‘ _I’m not gay’_ Watson. A relationship? No, it’s clear I ruined my chances at that a long time ago. But I certainly didn’t expect the cold shoulder. 

If I want John Watson, this is how I have him. A one night stand steeped in fear and denial. I have to be okay with that. 

I shower and shave, exiting my room only half an hour after John, but it’s enough to wash the slate clean. John doesn’t even act as if anything is different — he types up the case with his usual fervour, questioning me occasionally on details he’s forgotten. He chats to Mrs Hudson when she pops her head around the door, acting as if everything is normal. As if nothing has changed. Later that night, he pads up the stairs to his room like he hadn't spent the last night in mine. Like I don’t know what his face looks like when he orgasms; as if I haven’t memorised how he reacts to each touch of my hand on his cock. 

I don’t sleep that night. When John walks back down the stairs the next morning, I’m at the window, idly picking at the strings of my violin. He comments on it, but I’m not listening, lost in the depths of my mind palace. If that was everything — if I will never again see the stretch of John’s bare skin beneath me; hear his breath hitch in his chest as I trail kisses down his throat, then I will damn well memorise every second of it. There is now a box in John’s wing, filled with data, every sound he made and each sensation of his lips on mine. It’s tucked between the catalogue of his jumpers and the list of all his favourite foods. 

I am pulled from my reverie only by the feeling of tea being pushed into my hand. I look up, and John is smiling at me, his eyes darting over my face as if trying to discern what I’m thinking. My heart skips a beat and I am reminded that no matter what happened that night; regardless of my new-found knowledge about what lies beneath his clothes, he is still John. He is still the man that follows me blindly into danger; makes me tea in the morning and reminds me to eat when I’ve forgotten. If we never have sex again, if this is just some anomaly — I still have our friendship. I still have the knowledge that he loves me; not necessarily in the way I want but as his friend. Whilst I wish I could have more of him — I have this, and it is enough. 

“Did you stay up all night?” He asks, quirking a curious eyebrow. 

“It was imperative that I memorise every detail about our meeting with Moriarty,” I lie. I have spent embarrassingly little time thinking about the consulting criminal. I should — no doubt this will not be the last time we see him, but I can’t bring myself to think about anything other than John’s hand fisted around the both of us. 

I don’t tell him that the real reason I don’t sleep is because the bed feels empty without him. If I sink into the mattress, all I can feel are the echoes of him; faint ghosts of his touch on my skin, the shadow of his lips on my neck. I’m not sure what is worse; never having him, or being given a taste of what could have been and having it ripped away from me. 

No. I definitely know which is worse. 

“Well, do you want breakfast? I’m sure he can wait while you eat.” 

“That would be good, thank you.” 

John ambles off to the kitchen, and it isn’t long before the smell of frying bacon fills the flat and makes my stomach rumble. Yes. This is enough. 

Months pass, cases blur into each other, and I almost forget about the night spent in my bed, tangled together. Almost. Nothing changes; neither of us bring it up, and I fully expect that it will never happen again. Until it does.


	2. A Scandal in Belgravia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Had Irene been right? Was John Watson truly so jealous that he would break his own code of honour in order to recapture something only he thought to have claimed? I brush the thought from my mind; just because he is jealous does not mean that he wishes to be more than what we are.'

Everything returned to normal after the showdown with Moriarty. John and I stayed in our separate bedrooms, no lingering hint of intimacy between us. I tried, against my better judgement, to elicit some sort of a reaction; wandering around the flat in nothing but a sheet in the hopes that John would abandon his steely self-restraint. It didn’t work — John barely batted an eyelid, only dropping his careful mask when we were summoned to the palace. Even then, it was not my nakedness that unsettled him, but the very location we were in. Either he has trained himself well to hide any hints of attraction, or he truly didn’t care who it was that night when he entered my room. I was just within easy reach — a warm body to keep the loneliness at bay. 

Yet, John was jealous of Irene. I wasn’t expecting it — I’m not sure he’s even aware of it — but it’s there. A simmering possessiveness that surfaces each time she flirted at me. I considered flirting back, only a little, just to see his reaction.

John’s demeanour had shifted the second he’d walked in on her straddling my lap. I doubt he was fully aware of it, but he stayed close — keeping me within arms reach as much as possible. I have to admit that I played on it, indulging Irene in her games without any intention of following through. 

He counted the text messages; that was the next sign. All 57 of the ones he heard. I never replied; I had no interest in pursuing her. I still don’t. Now she’s left for good, I have no interest in chasing her down again. She fascinates me; a woman of that intellectual calibre who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it, but that’s all. Her powers of seduction would never have worked on me, especially with John so close. Still, it was tempting to give in — let John think there was something more — just to see if he’d react. If he’d let me go, or come back to claim what’s already his. 

I didn’t think he’d notice I was gone. I spun a lie about tying up loose ends with Mycroft, before catching a flight to Karachi, determined to save the Woman from herself, despite my better judgement. Yet, once again, I am proven wrong.

My flight lands back at Heathrow in the early afternoon, and I’ve barely made it back up the stairs of 221B when John accosts me in the hallway, blocking the door with his body. 

“Are you going to tell me where you really were?”

He asks the question almost accusingly. His eyes narrow more than I’ve ever seen before, and his brow furrows tightly. It gives his face a more hardened, ‘no-nonsense, stiff upper lip’ sort of characterisation that most British men pride themselves on. If I wasn’t so taken aback by the question, I might have actually found myself in fear of having such a look directed at me, but my mind has nearly spun out of control trying to decide how to react.

“Your little ‘trip’...” John prompts again, shifting his weight as he tries a new tactic. “You saved her, didn’t you?”

Another accusatory question.

I can’t understand why it matters at all, but my brain is pounding out a staccato rhythm, pulsing wretchedly as it stretches to accommodate the question. I couldn’t have answered it even if I’d wanted, but the fact still remains: John Watson is in fact _very_ jealous of my perceived ‘romantic entanglements’ with Irene Adler.

I have no idea how much time actually passes between his question and my blatant disregard for a politely timed answer, but it must be long enough to warrant John’s ultimate irritation with me. A heavy sigh passes his lips as he raises a hand to swipe over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Right, fine. Guess you’re just not saying anything,” he huffs, turning his back to me for a moment, which was becoming quite the customary alternative to discussing anything remotely related to emotions. Another sigh, another huff. “Honestly, it’s… It’s fine… You keep your secrets, I’ll keep mine.”

 _‘Secrets? What secrets?’_ I think, hurriedly flicking back through my archived memories of John, wondering if I’ve missed something so terribly obvious, but, in the end, I find nothing. The chilling covenant hangs in the air like some sort of passive-aggressive threat, dangling over me with a sharp promise that I will later regret letting it go so easily. 

When he leaves — sinking into the sofa, hiding behind his laptop — I drop my bag in my bedroom and head straight to the shower. A layer of plane grime coats my skin, and I’m desperate to wash it off. His accusations follow me, occupying my mind as I run through the motions of wetting my hair and working shampoo through the curls. What did he think we were up to? Some sex-fuelled rendezvous in the middle of Pakistan? Surely, he knew me better than that? 

The bathroom door creaks open subtly and I freeze, blinking my eyes open slowly. I’m drawn back to myself in a bit of a haze; the water from the showerhead drips off my brow and into my eyes making it hard to see, but I can feel John’s presence as much as I can feel my own muscles tensing. He shouldn’t be here, yet he shouldn’t be anywhere else.

The soft rustle of clothing being removed gives me a brief moment of warning before the shower door slides open, revealing the extremely memorable form of John’s naked body as he steps in to join me. It’s curious, though not altogether surprising, but I still don’t understand the sudden invasion of privacy. As noted before, nudity has never been anything more than human nature to me, but I am, however, under the impression that it is in bad form to interrupt someone’s personal bathroom engagements uninvited. I’d been scolded for it enough myself when John had first moved into the flat, after all.

With a tilt of my head, I open my mouth to speak — to question his intentions — but John shakes his head, raising a finger to his lips. “You didn’t want to talk earlier; I don’t want to talk now,” he says gruffly, raking his gaze over my body and sliding the door closed behind him as I move forward a bit to make room. His eyes are hard and cold, filled with something new — _dominance? No, possession._

I suck in a cautious breath, nodding slowly as my back hits the cool tile wall. I shouldn’t want this, but I do; I shouldn’t tolerate the invasive behaviours, the over-sexualised self-indulgence, but I anticipate the slow drag of his calloused fingertips over the sharp edge of my hip bone. The barest brush of his hand scorches my skin in a tantalising thrill of desire and I bend to his will. There is something different behind his touch this time, something raw and animalistic, something I’d only ever dreamed of having.

His short fingers tease up the side of my body, brushing gently over the nape of my neck before sliding up to take their place in my hair. His touch is light, to begin with, tugging my hands out of the way and replacing them with his own as he works the lather into my scalp. As if our first encounter hadn’t been strange enough, this experience is even more so. The way his fingertips press against my skull is a whole new level of eroticism that I know I will be dissecting later once I’m alone. It’s possessive, yet dizzyingly intimate, almost as if he’s trying his best to leave the very form of his fingerprints embedded in my skin. 

Had Irene been right? Had she really left that much of an impression on him? Was John Watson truly so jealous that he would break his own code of honour in order to recapture something only he thought to have claimed? I brush the thought from my mind; just because he is jealous does not mean that he wishes to be more than what we are. 

Jealousy comes in all shapes and sizes. It takes on multiple forms, manifesting itself between friends and lovers alike without ever batting an eye. It weaves its way into families, terrorising siblings and conquering great dynasties with a single swipe of its poisoned talons. It is ruthless in its pursuits and knows no bounds.

It is because of this that I have always said that love is a much more vicious motivator, but, in the heat of the moment, I am no longer sure. As John’s hands trail down my spine, I can’t help but wonder what jealousy would look like — what damage could it possibly do — when fueled by passion? Would it feel like John’s tongue lapping longingly over my pulse, branding me as if I were never to be touched by anyone else? Or would it feel like the soft hair of his belly, slicked wet and clinging to his skin where it brushes against my arse, teasing me beyond reason?

A swift bout of dizziness threatens to overtake me as I realise just how close he is — just how wonderful his tongue feels against my dampened skin — but I try to calm my thoughts. It almost startles me as John’s hand brushes the wet curls from my temple, rinsing the shampoo from my hair, before his hand slips past me to grab the bar of soap and my curiosity piques. His fingers flex with a concentrated effort and, before I can fully register what is happening, he brings the soap to my shoulder and presses it against my skin in one fluid motion.

I shiver involuntarily. I’ve never experienced anything like this before and I fight back a wave of nervous claustrophobia. The confined space of the bath seems even smaller as John presses even further into my personal space, his skin brushing mine again as his chest meets my back and the bar of soap glides down my arms and over my shoulders. He scrubs my skin with a subtle determination, the heat of his stormy gaze fixated on every single pore of my skin. 

Short, concentrated puffs of breath confirm his persistence before his lips even brush the newly cleaned skin of my shoulder blade. _Perhaps he is jealous... Perhaps — ? No._ I refuse to allow boyhood fantasies to cloud my better judgment; to John Watson, sex is just sex. I’d already established that the first time. No matter how intense and deep my fascination with him may be, I have to remember that John is a doctor. My absence and perceptual rendezvous with The Woman is enough to trigger warning signals in anyone with a medical background and half a brain. John is a man of practical medicine and safe sex practices are an absolute must in his book. This ‘possessive behaviour’, this suspected exhibition of a ‘desire to reclaim me’, is about as legitimate as my brother’s claim to know absolutely nothing about Russia outside of common knowledge. 

John is a doctor. That means that John is nothing but thoroughly serious where sex is concerned. 

If there is even the slightest possibility that I could have engaged in sexual relations with The Woman, it is quite obvious that he would insist on checking me over to make certain that I am clean in every way possible. He is most likely extremely invested in confirming with his own eyes that I am free from any negative connotations The Woman’s professional, as well as leisurely, activities could have on my body. Even a very basic appreciation for medical logic would be able to confirm this theory. She did drug me once before after all, so I’m not ruling that possibility out either. He's done this sort of thing before when drugs were involved, albeit with a heavy emphasis on monitoring me for track marks after discovering my nasty little struggles with addiction, but still, my point stands.

However, I find that, once again, my usual forms of deduction are coming up short. 

Every fibre of my being is on high alert. The heady scent of lavender foam is scrubbed over the planes of my back and into the curves of my arse with a slight hint of enthusiasm shrouded in a faint shadow of medical professionalism. His doctor’s hands work over the backs of my legs as he kneels down behind me, yet something still doesn’t fit. He washes me from top to bottom before tapping my hip with a gentle hand.

He repeats the delicate process he’d developed on my back, this time starting with my chest and working his way down to my belly. He lathers, he washes, he rinses, making sure no soap is left behind before sinking to his knees in front of me as he completely ignores my groin. _Understandable — perhaps he does not wish to touch me in such a way that might jeopardize the seriousness of the situation._ He focuses instead on scrubbing away every possible particle of dirt from my thighs and calves then lifts each of my feet in turn as he scrubs them clean as well. Another gentle kiss is pressed to my skin once he’s finished, throwing my deductive reasoning for yet another loop. I don’t understand; I can’t understand. Nothing makes sense as his lips brush over me yet again, this one landing just over the prominent crease where my hip meets my thigh and that’s when I hear it as well as feel it.

John’s lips curl in a definite, yet hidden, snarl and he growls.

It’s a quiet but powerful sound, starting as a low rumble in the depths of his chest before reverberating through my entire body as his lips continue to mouth over the sensitive flesh of my thigh. This is definitely a far cry from the doctor-patient agenda my brain has been so desperately clinging to, but I’m not sure how to process what is actually happening. My heart pounds erratically in my chest and my hands clench and unclench at my sides. _Does he have any idea what he’s doing to me? Does he even care?_

My question falls unanswered, forgotten in an instant as John’s hands close around the bar of soap and he works an intoxicating lather up between his palms. The action is mesmerizing and my mind focuses instead on the particular way his fingers curl and uncurl slightly as the bar slips and slides between them as he moves to return it to its proper place. 

His focus shifts back to my groin and the careful attentiveness he’s displayed all this time falters slightly. There is a hunger lurking in his eyes now, something dark and desperate. It’s a selfish, burning desire that seems to manifest itself in his fingertips as they caress the heavy weight of my sac, rolling my balls gently as his thumb brushes over the thickening shaft of my cock.

I moan breathlessly and my eyes threaten to slip closed but I fight to keep them open. I don’t want to miss a single thing as John’s hand works the lather over my length, sharp huffs and quiet growls filling the space between us. The soap works as a brilliant lubricant, allowing my cock to slip and slide through the tunnel of his fist and I feel the subtle drop in my mental capabilities as all of the blood in my body redirects to my groin. It’s amazing, though slightly alarming, all at once but I remind myself that, even if the circumstances are less than respectable, I am with John and I can trust him with my body as well as my mind. That I am certain of, at least, even if I can not say for sure what his motives are… 

Another gentle tap of my hip has me turning toward the water again and John’s hands work to rinse me clean, stroking the hard length of my cock in a steady rhythm that sends yet another shiver down my spine. He’s careful but sure of himself, much like that first night, but I’m still painfully aware that this time is very different. He has something new in mind and I can feel it in every swipe of his thumb over my slit, in every slight twist of his wrist as he coaxes me closer and closer to the edge.

His grip tightens slightly and I wrack my brain for clues in hopes of distracting myself from the intense waves of pleasure that threaten to break the walls of my mind palace wide open. If only he would say something, make a sound, do anything at all that might give something away — clue me into whatever it is that he’s thinking. Perhaps then I might know, might be able to deduce his heart over his body, and gain that coveted bit of insight that I so desperately need in order to set my mind at ease.

I finally close my eyes, giving in to the brilliant sensation of John’s hand on my cock, working me to the very brink of disaster. _What does it matter? Even if I knew his thoughts, would it really change the way I feel?_ _Would I really have it in myself to push him away?_ If I’m honest with myself, I know the answer. I’ve known it all along. 

John’s hand jerks and twists then goes still at the base of my cock, throwing my senses completely off track. Before I can panic though, something completely unexpected happens.

The tip of my cock twitches violently and a deep, throaty moan — unlike any sound I’ve ever made before — escapes my lips as John’s tongue dips teasingly into my leaking slit. He laps experimentally at my glans before drawing his tongue back and licking a wide stripe up the underside of my cock. My toes curl, my back arches, and my head hits the tiles with a sharp crack but neither of us pays it much attention. I’m too lost in the sensation of John’s mouth as his lips close around my glans and I swear my body feels more alert than it ever has in my entire life. I’m hyper-aware of every minute movement now, every flick of John's tongue, every shallow breath he takes, every single fibre of my being honing in on every aspect of John and it’s almost as if he’s found a way to ignite my very soul with something so desperately improper.

I gasp again, this time my fingers scrabbling for purchase in his sand-coloured hair, gripping the dampened strands, as he hollows his throat and starts to bob his head. I can hear the gentle slap of his free hand as he jerks himself in time with the motion of his head and it’s almost too much for me to process. I’m close and I know it won’t take him long to push me over the metaphorical edge. Every pass of his tongue, every vigorous suck of my cock drives me closer and closer to orgasm.

I tug his hair in a quiet, yet gentle warning. I do not know if I am permitted to speak so I don’t, just to be safe. Our entire encounter has once again been completely silent, but it doesn’t bother me. The soft moans and quiet growls are enough to satiate my need for audible data and I am certain that I will be analysing each new sound in turn for days on end. 

A well-timed growl rumbles around my cock, sending a mind-blowing vibration throughout my entire body and I’m surprised at the broken whimper that leaves my throat. It’s low and needy and not like me at all but John’s fingers dig into my hip as he bobs his head even faster. I can feel the back of his throat as the tip of my cock brushes repeatedly against it and my hips falter in their own thrusts, calling to question when I had even begun to move them in the first place.

John claws at my hip, his fingernails leaving little half-moon impressions in my skin — a silent mantra of ‘mine’ etched into my hip as he moans loudly and I realize exactly what's happening. The sound sends a shockwave straight to my core and I know why he’s here. I shake my head desperately, huffing and tugging even harder on his hair to warn him as my cock jerks in his mouth. He doesn’t pull away, but buries himself deeper, his nose brushing the dark patch of hair at my groin as I feel the first pulses of semen leave my body.

Sucking eagerly, John braces himself against my thigh — moaning and twitching through his own release as he pulls back just enough to catch the last drops on his tongue before swallowing. The gesture isn’t as dramatic as I would have imagined but the eroticism isn’t lost on me as he wipes his mouth on the back of his free hand and my gaze drops to the hand between his legs. 

He’s stroking himself in slow, lazy passes, wringing the remains of his orgasm from his cock as it pools at the edges of his foreskin and he brushes it away with his thumb. I slump against the wall in a haze of post-coital bliss as I watch him and I can’t help wondering what he must taste like. I’ve only ever tasted my own — for experimental purposes, of course — so the thought of tasting another’s, John’s in particular, opens up a whole new catalogue of references in my mind. Would he have a tangy, bitter taste? Or something more akin to a sweet yet salty combination? The possibilities are endless really, especially with the theory that your previous food intake determines the flavour and thickness, but I quickly let the idea slip from my mind as I feel John’s eyes on me. 

I glance up to meet his gaze and his expression surprises me. His navy blue eyes have shifted in colour, taking on a slate-grey appearance as they search my face for something I am not quite aware of. He definitely looks tense, even though he’s just come, which leads me to wonder if he is even aware of it at all. _Is he regretting our encounter already or has he simply surprised himself with how far he’s actually gone this time?_

He takes a step backwards, and with one last cursory glance at my body, steps out of the shower as silently as he arrived. John is gone and, once again, I’m left alone with my thoughts. I throw a hand out behind me, steadying myself against the wall; knees weak. I close my eyes, committing every second to memory. The heated gazes and insatiable hunger leaves with him and I’m not exactly certain how I feel about it. It’s somehow worse than the last time, and Irene’s sultry voice echoes behind my half-lidded gaze as I lower myself to the bench seat in the corner of the bathtub.

What had she meant anyway? What use had it been throwing my own words back at me like an arrogant adversary watching and waiting for me to become the bane of my own existence?

I think back to the last conversation we had, the subdued hour in the hotel room before my return flight. Her guard had been down — the carefully constructed disguise she’d carried with her stripped away. I felt like an intruder — this was not the woman I had met, the one who took what she wanted without question and was unapologetic in how she made her money. I had respected her for that, but now the woman in front of me was a shadow — meekly changing into her clothes with an air of resignation. We had been silent the entire journey to the hotel, and I had no intention of breaking it, so I was startled by her question. 

“I never had any chance with you, did I?” 

I didn’t answer, zipping up my bag with a flourish and grabbing the coat which lay over the bed. I had no interest in continuing this line of questioning. The game was over, she had lost. There was no reason for either of us to pretend that the other held our affections. 

“Is it him?” 

I froze, my hand hanging in the air. Was it that obvious? Had my carefully constructed facade started to slip? 

She took the gesture as a yes, and I mentally cursed at myself. A soft smile played at her lips as she moved to sit on the bed in front of me. Unlike before, it wasn’t sexual — there was no invitation to join her, no coy smile or silent beckoning in her eyes. There was just her, asking a question as a friend. 

“Don’t worry, I doubt Moriarty could tell. He’s not particularly sharp when it comes to human emotion.” 

I finally lifted up my coat, slowly threading my arms through and shrugging it over my body. I turned to leave, uninterested in continuing the conversation. Despite her reassurance, she was close to Moriarty, and I had no intention of revealing that level of personal information to someone who would ultimately use it to their own ends. 

“You’d be surprised, Sherlock.” 

I paused in the doorway, my body betraying my curiosity. 

“Surprised by what?”

I could practically hear the smile in her voice, but I refused to turn around; to yield that level of control over to her.

“You see but do not observe...” 

Those words had plagued me all the way home, and after a while, I convinced myself that they were empty; just one last power play. I had bested her, and now she owed me her life. She couldn’t be comfortable with that. Her final words must have been her last stab at taking back control — putting me in my place. 

Carefully, I climb out of the shower, groaning when I realise John has stolen the last towel. I squeeze the water out of my hair before slipping back into my bedroom, cursing as carpet sticks to my sodden feet. I pull a clean towel out from my wardrobe, drying off my skin and stepping into clean pyjamas. It’s early, but I climb into bed, staring at the ceiling. I need the barrier of time — the dawn of a new day before I can face John again. Last time was intolerable — trying to maintain a normal facade as we carried on as usual. Now, I’m not sure I have the self-restraint; the ability to keep my hands to myself as he tries to ignore what has passed between us. I’m unsure of what the rules are here. Is he the only one that gets to initiate this? Do I have to sit back as he takes what he wants, but refuses to yield any level of intimacy? _Washing my body of Irene seems quite an intimate act, doesn't it? Or am I simply grasping at straws?_ I know it’s wrong, bordering on unhealthy — but I can’t bring myself to put a stop to it. I want this, and each act has been fully consensual, but I am unnerved by the lack of rules. 

I stare at the ceiling, wide awake, wishing I could understand what’s going on in his head. Is he in the kitchen now, having the exact same argument with himself? Or has he already forgotten what transpired? Is the taste of me already washed from his mouth, or is he savouring it, waiting for the moment he can have more? 

I punch the pillow flat and turn over, growling into the fabric. John Watson, what are you doing to me? This is exactly what I didn’t want, the constant self-doubt and second-guessing. I have always assumed love to be a dangerous disadvantage. Here is the proof. I am slipping, letting myself be distracted from the bigger picture by a sexually ineffectual man. I should have learnt, by now, that I cannot afford such liberties. Irene was a cautionary tale of what happens when sentiment corrodes your judgement. She could have had anything — if she’d set her password to any random combination she would have walked away with everything she’d worked for. Instead, she let herself be seduced by the game. I have no delusions that she actually wanted me, she merely wanted to see how far she could push before I’d break, but she was cocky; too sure of her ability to seduce me into submission.

Irene is a firm reminder that I cannot ever let that happen. However I feel for John, no matter what passed between us in the night, I cannot let my judgement slip. The second that happens, if I ever allow my sentiment to get in the way of the purely transactional experience we have, that is the day I fall.


	3. The Hounds of Baskerville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'This isn't a relationship. We aren't intimate, not in that sense. We are just two people, reaching for one another in the dark.'
> 
> PTSD trigger warning for this chapter

What I had expected to be a one-off occurrence ends up becoming a regular arrangement. As the number of dangerous cases and mishaps increase, so do our physical encounters. It’s nothing as substantial as a relationship, or even a routine arrangement, but there is a regularity to it that feels odd. In my life, I have never troubled myself with something so mundane as a relationship, and, until now, I have never wanted to. And therefore I have nothing with which to compare. Is this how every other partnership begins? With a silent give and take in the shadows?

Even after the second time, washing each other in the shower, I wanted more, but I was afraid to ask. I knew what the answer would be. So I tried to shut my feelings away, compartmentalise myself to stop my affection bleeding into every action. I was unsuccessful. My body is like a magnet, gravitating towards him whilst he stays motionless across the room.

During the three months after Irene, I find myself needing him more and more — reaching for casual contact with every chance I get. It is an involuntary reaction; I’ll catch myself nudging closer on the sofa or leaning back into him as he passes behind, and have to stop myself. This isn’t a relationship. We aren’t _intimate,_ not in that sense. We are just two people, reaching for one another in the dark. 

As the weeks pass, it starts to become harder and harder to keep myself in check. Each action is brushed with my affections, and frustration creeps into my skin as each one is disregarded. I become restless between cases; my body betraying me. To have been given a taste, yet denied the gratification of reaching out whenever I want, is driving me mad. My body thrums in anticipation, constantly ready for him to take what he wants. I second-guess every move, analyse every word, looking for some sort of sign. It builds and builds, until, finally, I can’t contain it anymore. 

In a particularly dry spell, I run out of cases to keep my mind occupied. Each cell in my body screams for him, simultaneously shouting for the mental stimulation of a case, and it is taking all my willpower not to sink to my knees and beg him to let me close again. Not just his body, though God knows I long for it, but his tenderness, the careful, devoted attention he gave me in the moments he had allowed himself to submit.

Finally, filled with frustration, my lips and tongue betray me, and my restlessness bursts from its dam. I don’t beg, not quite, but the desperate plea coats every word. My brain triggers some sort of ridiculous self-defence mechanism, inserting its own form of code for what I really want to say, and interpreting his response in its own cruel and destructive way.

“I NEED A CASE!”

“ _I want you. Please, let me have you.”_

“You’ve just solved one! By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!”

“ _No. I made a mistake; twice was enough”_

I can hear John’s frustration mounting with every word I say, but I struggle to keep a hold on my desires. It isn’t fair. My brain is spiralling out of control, unable to focus on anything other than John and all the uncertainties buzzing between us. Why should he get to decide everything? Is that how all relationships like this work?

It is easier when there is a case. I can channel my relentless energy into something specific — my jumpiness chalked up to the adrenaline of the case. In the moments between, it is unbearable, not just the sexual tension, but the need to be close, to hold him to me. But he would never allow that. So I pace, and I sulk, and I harpoon dead pigs. Because I’m Sherlock Holmes, and that is what I do. 

“When’s the next one?” I ask, sinking defeatedly into my chair. My entire body seems to hum with pent up energy I can’t explain. _‘Sexual frustration’_ my mind supplies, but I shrug it off. What I’d really been asking was when I could have him again… When would he want me again? If ever… 

This is a game where only he knows the rules. I can’t ask, not outright. We had never spoken about it, never asked for anything. He had taken what he wanted, pausing only long enough to check we were on the same page. But there was no verbal confirmation — nothing as concrete as conversation, just subtle nods and moans of pleasure. But, something changed in that instant, something that I must have missed the first time through. John’s eyes lingered on me for a moment as I glared at him, clearly daring him to deny me what I wanted, yet the denial never comes. 

Instead, he stands and clears his throat, tipping his head in the general direction of the hallway. At first, I am unsure what’s happening — what it is supposed to mean, but he turns without a word, and it isn’t until I hear the soft click of my bedroom door that I realise I am supposed to follow him. 

From that day on, our isolated events become a recurring arrangement. We finally start to acknowledge each other’s needs in mutual agreement, responding to the subtle cues and triggers that let the other know what we need most and when we need it. Sometimes, it is something as simple as a mutual masturbatory session — getting each other off quickly and efficiently. Other times, it is rough — rutting against each other till we’re both tipped over the edge. Then there are the times we fuck, John dominating me and cleansing the very depths of my mind… but still, neither of us says a word. My mind quiets for a while, my body finally sated. Inevitably, it calls out once more, and we start all over again.

John stops dating. He couldn’t keep a girlfriend around long enough anyway, what with all the chasing after me, so we both begin to benefit from our little arrangement. I am provided with a mental reset; John a physical one.

It works for weeks. I am able to convince myself that this is enough. Semi-regular contact, my mind can cope with that. But then a strange client comes to the door with the promise of hounds, and the safety of 221B is whipped out from under my feet. There, I had begun to understand the rules. We only ever fucked in my bedroom, never speaking, never lingering. 

Now, I find myself standing on the very edge of the unknown. As I open the door to our shared quarters, my heart drops into the pit of my stomach. In the centre of the room is a single solitary bed. My mouth runs dry, and I can’t help thinking about the awkward silence as we’d made our way here. The air between us had seemed uncomfortable, holding a static electricity, something unidentifiable fractured between us. The entire journey felt as if it was teetering off balance. Still, it had been more encouraging than the conversation I’d overheard downstairs.

The two men who own the inn had obviously been involved with one another for quite some time and were happy to attach their own comfortable openness to us as well. This, however, did not seem to impress John in the slightest. I’d forgotten how much those comments got under his skin. I overheard what he’d said to the innkeeper when he’d insinuated we’d been together. 

“Oh, we’re not —”

Not what, John? Lovers? Friends with benefits? People who only seek each other’s bodies out in the stillness of the night; hiding our sexualities with an unhealthy dose of darkness?

“Is yours a snorer?” The man had probed once again, clearly not taking the hint the first time. Am I, John? You’re the only one who would know. 

Deep down, I know I can’t dwell on those things now, but it doesn’t make my mind any less anxious. What will he think when he comes upstairs and sees the situation that we’re in? Will he stall, halted by the implication? Will he demand another room? Or will he simply soldier on, as he always does? 

I catch my breath as John walks through the door, grumbling something under his breath. I hear the words _long legs_ and _could have waited for me,_ but I’m not paying attention. I unzip my bag, busying myself with nothing. Glancing over my shoulder, I see him stride over to the bed, throw his bag at the foot, and stretch. He says nothing. Eventually, he turns, looks up, and simply asks: 

“Are you ready to go?”

Well. That answers that. 

  
  


***

The first day of our Baskerville exploration only serves to confirm two of the many things I had expected and one very surprising thing that I hadn’t. For starters, Baskerville is indeed a place where multiple horrors are taking place and Bluebell the rabbit is most definitely going to give me the leverage I need to solve the case. The interesting bit, however, has very little to do with the case and pretty much everything to do with me.

Up until this point, John has been very discreet about his military background. It isn’t that he refuses to talk about it, but he is never particularly forthcoming on the subject. I let him be, never pressing for more information than he is willing to give, no matter how curious I become, but I have never realised just how much I _liked_ him. Captain Watson. 

‘Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers’ to be exact. 

_Fuck._

At that moment, I had struggled to keep my face straight, desperately fighting the wave of heat that had surged to my groin. It was then that I’d found myself suddenly feeling very grateful for wearing such a thick coat as part of my regular attire. Even if it hadn’t always been practical, it had proven at that moment to be quite useful at concealing my unexpected, yet very prominent, erection.

The thought of the incident floods my cheeks once again. How the hell could one man affect me in so many uniquely different ways? It was unfair really that he should take up so much of my cognitive presence, practically consuming me from the inside out as I, a willing participant in my own demise, lie back and watch it happen. There is nothing that I can do, nothing that I can say to scrub the memory from my mind. It’s there, lodged forever in the crevices of the new wing of my Mind Palace, a wing dedicated in its entirety to John Watson. 

_‘Captain John Watson,’_ my brain supplies, conjuring up scenarios featuring combat boots and military fatigues; dog tags clinking together against John’s bare chest as I sink to my knees in front of him — the scar from the bullet wound that nearly killed him marring his perfectly pale skin. It’s hard to stop the scenario from running wild, my throat aching from the stretch in order to accommodate his ridiculous size; his hands fisted in my hair in order to hold me in place. 

My mouth waters and I shake my head in a desperate attempt to clear the impure thoughts from my mind. I don’t have time for this. I need a clear headspace; I need to sharpen my thought processes, I _need_ to think. About something other than John and his commanding officer voice, preferably. I need to focus on Henry Knight. He’s dragged us out onto the moors, in search of his monstrous hound, yet my mind doesn’t seem to understand the severity of the situation. 

It’s too busy obsessing over what John would look like standing above me with his hand fisted tightly in my hair, his officer’s voice commanding me into submission. Deep down, I know that I want this before my mind can fully process it. I know that, one day, I want him to play out his army days using me as his subordinate, but, for now, I can’t allow myself to slip that far. For now, I must draw myself back to the realities that await, even if they’re nowhere near as exciting as the things I envision for myself.

***

_‘I don’t have friends.’_

It slipped out involuntarily, the blatant disregard of his friendship. It was true, and I had meant it. I _don’t_ have friends. I have never been the type to be surrounded by people. John is the exception, not the rule. But, in truth, I’ve never seen him as a friend, because in reality, he is so much more. He always has been. To say John is just a friend is to say that Bach is just music. It is so much more than that. A fierce uniqueness that defies everything that I have ever convinced myself to believe in.

Especially now.

My own sanity hangs in the balance, teetering dangerously close to the edge of my greatest fears. My mind had betrayed me. It had let me down in a moment when I had needed it most, allowing fear and anxiety to run rampant as I watched everything that I’d ever prided myself on being stripped away from me. 

I have always been able to hide my emotions — ‘Divorce myself from my feelings’ as I call it, never allowing myself to emit human responses to the mundane irrationalities that most were so often getting hung up over. I considered myself to be above such things, yet, this time, I had slipped. I’d let myself be fooled by my own imagination into thinking that I had seen something that I couldn’t possibly have. 

There was no ’gigantic hound’; there had never been a ‘gigantic hound’. Archaic phrasing as I had pointed out when Henry had visited Baker Street to request my assistance. The words themselves were enough to tip off even the dimmest of researchers, so why had my mind thrown all of my previous knowledge out the window? Had I been drugged? Had a foreign substance been slipped into my drink or something?

Not likely, not without my noticing anyway. _Unless?_

I note the thought for further analysing; something was given to me, that much is clear, but it doesn’t explain the way my body is reacting now. Knowing that what I thought I had seen was nothing but an elaborate illusion, I should be able to dismiss the fear and anxiety lingering over me, but I can’t. My mind has been compromised, and the more I think about it, the more I begin to realise just what has clouded my judgment. 

Or, rather _whom._

The only person that can ever derail my train of thought; the only person in the world that pulls my emotions to the surface, dragging them out and flaunting them for everyone around me to see. The only person that can hijack my brain in the middle of a case, filling up every nook and cranny with unrealistic fantasies just as I’d experienced that very morning. The only person I had ever worried about hurting; the only person in the world that I’d ever sworn to protect, even at the cost of my own life. The only person who had ever been able to distract me from the work… 

_John._

***

A chorus of gunshots signals a definitive end to a lifetime of horrors, as the details of the case fall together into the collective files of my Mind Palace. Madness has been vanquished, no longer able to rear its ugly head at the expense of the sanity of those who have suffered in its evil clutches. The curtain has fallen, the final whistle has blown; the nightmare has ended.

The dog gives one last echoing snarl; a final cling to life. In the moment of distraction, Dr Frankland runs. I barely turn to look at John, knowing he’ll be two steps behind, before I leap after him, struggling to keep my footing on the muddy forest floor. Dr Frankland is not a fast man, nor does he have the height to give him an advantage, but momentary distraction has given him the headstart he needs. 

We wind blindly through the trees, chasing mere shadows through the forest. I can hear John’s breath behind me, effortlessly keeping pace. I may have longer legs, but John is fast. We turn a corner and Frankland hurtles forwards out of the treeline, heading for the barbed wire fence in front of us. Something niggles at my brain, warning me of danger, but it’s not until I feel John’s steady hand pull on my shoulder that I realise what’s in front of us. I skid to a halt, my shoes losing grip on the soft ground, instinctively throwing a hand out to brace myself against John. He quickly hooks an arm around my waist, pulling me upright. We watch breathlessly as Frankland hurdles the barbed wire fence without pause, barely breaking stride. 

He makes it barely 500 metres before he stops dead in his tracks, a low whining drifting through the air. My heart leaps into my mouth as I realise what’s about to happen. He takes one more calculated step forward, and the bomb explodes beneath his feet. 

Chunks of soil and flesh fly in each direction, hitting the ground with muted thumps. Heat rolls forwards in waves, cooking my skin, and I reflexively lift a hand to cover my face. It does nothing to cool the scorching fire. A heavy stench fills the air, and it takes me longer than it should to realise that it’s burning flesh. Henry vomits from somewhere behind us, a wet retching that pulls at my stomach. I swallow it down. 

We stand, dazed, for what feels like hours — watching the moor burn in front of us. John stays glued behind me, his steady breathing keeping me tethered to the ground beneath my feet. My ears ring with the echoes of the blast, every nearby noise sounding far away, as if I’m underwater. It almost feels like being high — senses are both heightened and dulled at the same time, accompanied by a numb dissociation. Except instead of the brief moment of euphoric bliss, all I can feel is a sickening sense of dread, vibrating through my skin. 

Eventually, we are joined by military vehicles — dispatches from Baskerville drawn to the explosion like moths to a flame. Lestrade takes the lead, recounting the case with practised punctuality, warning them about the gas in the hollow. Two officers in uniform question John and I briefly whilst a doctor gives us a quick check over, before driving us home. The ride back to the inn is silent, the air filled with unspoken anxieties. Slowly, I come back to myself. My hearing is the first thing to settle, the ringing dulls until it is merely background noise, and the smell of crisped flesh is flushed from my sinuses. My jaw, which I hadn’t realised was clenched, relaxes, and a rolling wave of exhaustion overwhelms me. I know it’s just the adrenaline leaving my system because I have no desire to sleep. 

We bid goodbye to Lestrade at the top of the staircase. He doesn’t ask if we’re okay, instead giving a single nod and unlocking his room in one swift motion. The question would be pointless. 

John unlocks our room, striding straight to the bathroom, the door shutting noiselessly behind him. I peel off my coat, suddenly feeling naked in the room, despite being fully dressed. I hang it carefully on the back of the door, placing my gloves into the pocket beside my torch, and threading my scarf on top of the hook. 

I slowly undress, folding each item carefully and placing it back into my suitcase. With each layer removed, I feel a little colder, and a small shiver starts to run across my skin. I turn on the small radiator, hoping that the room will heat quickly, and pull down an extra blanket from the wardrobe. I’m sure once John is in bed I’ll warm up, but for now, I want all the sources of heat I can get. 

John. 

I realise that John still hasn’t emerged from the bathroom. It’s been fifteen minutes, and John is never one to spend more time in there than he needs. I give a tentative knock on the door, and a faint voice calls from inside. 

“One minute.” 

Something about his voice sounds off, but I leave him be, scanning the room for any stray items and packing them back away in my bag. We’ve not been in here enough to spread out properly, but I want to be fully packed away, ready to leave early the next morning. As fascinating as the case has been, I am ready to return to the safety of London. 

I long for the familiarities of home. It’s strange what crosses your mind after such a traumatising event, sudden glimpses of tea trays and sandwiches, care of Mrs Hudson, as well as half-drunken cups of tea left all over our flat. All of the seemingly dull and useless pieces that make up everyday life at Baker Street filter into my mind and I realise that I miss it. 

The way Mrs Hudson tuts over us, the way John’s keyboard clicks with the irregularity of his finger-pecking as he types away at his blog…John…

_John!_

And suddenly it hits me. That was the first sentence John had uttered since the minefield. Even when the officers questioned us, he let me take the lead, merely shaking his head or nodding in agreement. It had seemed odd at the time, the military precision of it, but my brain was far too preoccupied with my own uncertainties to process the information fully. It was almost as if — oh. Fuck. 

So wrapped up in my own little world, I had not considered the situation John had been in. An invalided army veteran, faced with a minefield, an explosion, and a dead man, was not a good combination. John’s post-traumatic stress disorder was not of the standard variety, but there was no doubt it was still there. And this cocktail of torrential trauma, paired with the involvement of the actual military, was enough to set anyone off. 

I stand close to the bathroom door, holding my breath and listening for sounds on the other side. Sure enough, I can hear a rhythmic gasping for breath, coupled with the loudness of someone trying not to make a sound. I reach for the handle and find the room unlocked. _Thank you, John._

He’s sat in the empty bathtub, his head between his knees, trembling hands covering his head. Veins pop out on the back of his hands, and gentle, yet laboured grunts fill the air, coated in restraint. 

“John, it’s me. I’m going to sit next to you.” He gives no verbal response, but his breath hitches slightly, and his shoulders tighten. Each breath echoes against the porcelain, and I sink to my knees next to the lip of the bath. The cold tiles burn my knees, but the shiver is gone. I make no move to reach out to John, even though I desperately want to. 

What feels like an eternity finally seems to pass, though I’m vaguely aware it’s only been about twenty minutes. His breath starts to even out, each muscle relaxing, his arms falling to rest on his ankles. Then, the sobs begin. Each one cracks its way out of his body and pulls at my heart. Each tear sounds loud as it drips into the base of the bath. I swallow my own tears, a useless response, and inch my hand forward on the side of the tub.

“Can I touch you?” The unexpected question comes out as a half-whisper; part plea, part promise. His hand reaches out to grab mine, permitting me to enter his space. Without thinking, I pull his hand up to my lips, trailing the ghost of a kiss across the skin. My other hand moves to rest on his back, drawing steady circles through the fabric of his jacket. He hadn't even stopped to remove it. I internally curse again, berating my stupidity. I should have seen this coming. I should have been there for him; given him the safe space to go through this together, rather than making him feel as if he had to hide away to face his demons alone like it was something shameful.

I shove the thoughts to the back of my mind. This is no time for self-flagellation; John deserves all of my attention. 

We stay, one hand in another, until the sobs begin to fade. Neither of us moves until each uncensored emotion has been drawn out, every muscle is relaxed, and John’s grip begins to weaken. I know that exhaustion will be biting at his heels. 

“I’m going to help you get undressed. Is that okay?” 

He nods faintly, sitting up straight to allow me better access. His face is dark and wet, his eyes glassy. Despite the physical symptoms regressing, I know he’s still in the grip of anxiety, echoes of a past war flickering behind his eyes. Without thinking, I begin to talk, murmuring sentences with little consequence to distract him from the chaos inside his head. I talk him through what I had done the night before when he had left, apologising once again for the way I had treated him. He doesn’t give any sign he can hear me, but he moves when I ask him to, gently stripping him bare and letting his clothes fall in a pile on the floor.

With a brief warning, I switch on the tap behind me and place the plug in the drain. Warm water swirls around his feet, staining his skin light pink with the heat. I take the soap and flannel from the glass shelf above the sink, wetting the bar into a lather and slathering it over the fabric. Delicately, I brush it over John’s skin, testing the water now and again to make sure it isn’t too warm. I clean every inch of his skin, imagining that as I do, I am washing him free of the horrors that plague him. I am reminded of his touch, the silent slide of hand on skin, wiping me clean of any trace of the Woman. This is different, there isn’t a veil to be lifted, no shadow of sexual tension, but I mimic the motions he made all those months ago, talking all the while. I lose track of what I’m saying, focussing too much on the task in hand, and it could be nonsense for all I know. But I continue, offering John a lifeline from the terrors of his mind. 

His eyelids start to droop, the body’s natural reaction to being tense for so long. It’s concerning yet comforting all at once, and I can feel my fears beginning to recede. Once all the soap suds have been washed from his skin, I drain the bath and help him to his feet. 

Once dry, we shuffle into the bedroom, where I gently dress him in his pyjamas and lead him over to the bed. Without protest, he sinks beneath the covers, shutting his eyes as soon as his head touches the pillow. It isn’t long before his breathing becomes shallow, and he falls into a silent sleep. 

With only a brief hesitation and fleeting fear of the unexpected, I climb in next to him, turning with one hand under my head to watch him. Even in sleep, he seems troubled, dark shadows hanging beneath his eyes, and a small furrow on his brow. I desperately want to reach out and wipe it away, soothing the troubled thoughts with the pad of my thumb, but, as I always do, I refrain. 

I will always refrain until the day comes when he asks me not to. 

I don’t sleep, instead cataloguing the case into the depths of my mind palace. I consider deleting the last parts; the sickening smell of gunpowder and scorched skin, but I refrain. As much as I never want to recall that, I doubt John’s PTSD will subside after tonight. It would be helpful to remember the trigger.

As if on cue, John flinches in his sleep, his body twitching at an unseen terror. I sit up, whispering his name. I’m hesitant to wake him directly; experience has taught me that it’s not a good idea to wake a war-vet from a nightmare. John forgot about that night, so I blamed that black-eye on an experiment gone wrong. He rarely questions that excuse. 

“John,” I whisper across the pillow, studying the lines of his face and wishing I could see what was happening in that war-torn brain. The cases; each hair raising case around London, I know about. I can make those nightmares easier. But his life before me, the scorching heat and flying bullets of Afghanistan, that’s a part of his life I’ll never understand. There’s a gaping hole in my knowledge of John Watson — a considerable portion of his life that I will never know about. I don’t mind that, normally. I never want him to see the part of my past I keep hidden away; my messy spiral further and further into addiction. But on nights like this, I wish I could make him feel slightly less alone. I wish I could analyse every memory in his head, pull apart each moment and deduce exactly what he needs to feel safe. But I can’t. 

John flinches a few more times, mouthing silent pleas to some invisible enemy. I repeat his name, louder this time, and he jerks himself awake, sitting up jarringly and bracing himself against the mattress with outstretched hands. I long to reach for him, to pull him into my arms and chase the terror away, but I don’t. Wishful thinking never helped anyone. 

John’s breathing is loud in the darkness; desperate pants, his lungs trying to offset the adrenaline in his blood. He turns slowly around the room, blinking away the shadows of terror, tearing himself away from the horrors of his mind. 

After a couple of silent minutes, he slumps back into the pillow, a sob caught in his throat. 

“Are you—”

“My phone.” He interrupts, swiping a hand across his face and pressing his fingers beneath his eyes. I oblige, padding into the bathroom to find his jeans, abandoned on the floor. I pull his phone out of the back pocket and pass it over, squashing the curiosity that’s bubbling in my stomach.

He unlocks it after a few tries; his hands shaking with the effort. I almost snatch it back and unlock it for him, but I stop myself. This is not the time for my impatience. 

A delicately-timed F-sharp rings out of the tinny speakers, and John rests the phone on his chest and closes his eyes. I’m confused for a moment, unsure what I’m witnessing, until the rest of the track starts to play. 

It’s me. 

The audio quality is poor; but that is unmistakably my violin, playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D. I’d recognise it anywhere. I bite my tongue, desperate to ask questions. 

“Shut up.” He murmurs into his hand, letting out a deep sigh. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You were thinking.” A pyjama-clad arm still covers his eyes, but I see a strained smile creep out from under his sleeve. “Alright, you have questions.” 

“When did you record me playing?”

“About six months after I moved in.”

“Why…?”

“You think I didn’t notice, Sherlock? You play for me whenever I have nightmares. Now it’s the only thing that calms me down enough so I can fall back asleep.” 

I stay silent, stunned by the admission. Of course I played for him — that first night, it was the only thing I could think of to wake him slowly; to save him from the depths of his night terrors. I never realised he knew. 

“You’re not always there when they happen. God forbid, you’re actually asleep some nights. So, one time when you played, I sat on the stairs and recorded you, for when I need it.” He takes a deep breath. “For when I need you.” 

“John, I — “

“It’s fine; you don’t have to say anything.” 

“No, I want to. I just — I didn’t realise I helped that much.” 

“Of course you do.” 

Our gazes lock across the pillow, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me, and I can’t quite decide whether I want him to; whether I want where that would inevitably lead, but then he turns his head to the ceiling, and the moment is gone. 

We stay in silence for what feels like hours, just listening to each other's breathing. I’m desperate to close the painful gap between us, but I don’t want him to think I’m searching for sex. I don’t want that now, and he’s in no position to give it. There is just an overwhelming urge to pull him into me, to remind him that he is safe. 

Finally, he breaks the silence, but doesn’t turn to face me, instead addressing the cracked lines in the ceiling. 

“Will you — “ He gulps, and for a second, I’m not sure he’s going to finish the sentence. “— Will you hold me?” 

Something soars in my stomach, and I reach out in answer, wrapping a hand around his wrist and pulling him towards me. John finally turns, and the look on his face sends a shiver down my spine. He is so open, vulnerability painted across his features, a shadow of fear dancing behind his eyes. The underbelly of humanity may haunt John’s dreams, but he is petrified of this intimacy, this unnamed emotion that he can’t fuck away. I don’t know whoever made him feel this way, who convinced him that he is broken for wanting this, but I desperately hope I never meet them. 

Tentatively, he wraps his arms around my waist and rests his forehead against my chest, letting out a long sigh into the creases of my pyjamas. 

It takes a while, but eventually, he drifts back to sleep. I make no effort to disentangle myself, despite my arms beginning to cramp. I am scared that if he wakes the spell will be broken; he’ll leave my arms and never return. And even after all the horror’s we’ve seen today, that is the thing that terrifies me the most. 

***

John is already up when I wake, fully dressed and folding his remaining clothes back into his suitcase. He gives a warm good morning, sounding as if this could be the start of any other day. It’s a complete juxtaposition from the John I saw last night; the one caught in the claws of his terror; choking on his nightmares. 

I shower, trying not to dwell on the memories of John sat in the same bath, clinging to sanity with the last of his strength. I do not need to commit that memory to my mind palace. It is not something I will ever forget. 

I brush my teeth with the bathroom door open; John sat on his phone by the door. For a long time, I’m sure he’s going to act as if nothing happened. Soldering on, like he always does. We crossed a line last night. Not in the initial comfort, but in the moments after, the whispered conversation and gentle touches. I push down the disappointment, berating myself for even hoping that this time would be different. It is queer affection, something John can’t bring himself to face. 

Yet, as ever, he surprises me. As we are about to leave, he turns in the doorway, sucking in a breath of courage. 

“Thank you. For last night. You — you made it less awful.” 

For a moment I think that’s all, a singular acknowledgement of what passed between us, but then he takes a decisive step forward and does something I never thought he would. He kisses me, firmly but surely, on the lips. I freeze for a moment, but by the time the shock clears he is gone — disappeared down the staircase, suitcase in tow. 

I stand, stunned into silence for a moment, feeling the ghost of his mouth on mine. I run my tongue over my lips, tasting the proof of his affection as the truth of it all begins to unfold before me. Something loosens in my chest, and a warm smile carves its way into my face. _Finally._

The drive home is filled with newfound ease. For the first time in months, the air feels clear, both of us sinking into the suppressed ease of our early friendship. No longer is this a one-sided game; calculated moves of chess designed to crown a winner. This is something more, an effortless partnership, sealed with the promise of a kiss. It’s a companionship that knows no limits, something I’ve never imagined possible, but yet it sits before me, proud and honest, mine for the taking as the familiar London streets welcome us home.

I count the steps as I make my way up to our flat, allowing myself a moment of playfulness in the depths of my mind. My thoughts are light and airy, like nothing I’ve experienced before, and the promise of John tagging along behind me, chuckling softly as he always does, fills my heart with an emotion I can’t quite name. It’s a warm and tingly feeling that has me glancing around the sitting room, a desperate fondness washing over me as my gaze settles on the mismatched chairs that have defined us for months. John’s warm dependability and comforting demeanour are echoed in the colours and Union Jack throw pillow, while the importance of intellect and my own desperate need for simplicity in an overly complex world stare back at me from my usual seat. 

It’s funny really, just how much of this flat seems to resemble us both, yet I’ve never noticed it before. I’d fought tooth and nail in the beginning to keep myself from becoming fully immersed in the enigma that is John Watson, but all around me, my entire world had already taken in more of him than I had ever planned. From the rugs on the floors to the magazines piled up on the coffee table, to the tea rings on the end tables, to the knick-knacks on the mantle. Everything in the room seemed to radiate with his presence, and it wasn’t until now that I realised the intensity of it all.

I can hear John behind me now, shuffling around as he always does when we return from a trip. He’ll check the refrigerator and unpack the bags, only this time he’s whistling to himself. Some funny little tune that I know I’ve heard before on the radio but I simply can’t place, nor do I wish to. My eyes scan the path of Watsonian evidence that my brain had supplied earlier — the rugs, the magazines, the end tables, the mantle — but it takes me a moment to process the envelope propped against the mirror.

A deep sense of confusion brings a furrow to my brow. Who could have left it? My brain sifts through the usual suspects in a whirlwind of thoughts, but no one seems to fit the bill. It most certainly isn’t Mycroft; God knows he prefers to make a show of things when he has something new to rub under my nose. But, if not Mycroft…then who?

I cross the room in three long strides, carefully taking the envelope from its place on the shelf before staring down at the elegant scrawl that adorns the thick parchment: 

_“Mr Sherlock Holmes”._ _Odd…_

Sliding a fingertip under the back flap, I tear it open with a delicate motion, completely taken aback when a single photograph slips out of the envelope and drifts to the floor. Even from here, I can see that it’s a picture of John. He’s on the pavement just outside of our flat, crossing the street and looking to his left as a taxi passes close behind him. 

For a moment, I study the image before picking it up, but I’m still unsure of its sudden significance. That is…until I turn it over. 

On the backside of the photograph, blazing red letters glare back at me. The scarlet verbiage sparks a terrifying flood of fear, ransacking the many corridors of my Mind Palace as the meaning sinks deep into my bones — a simple, yet deadly threat, one that I’d heard before but did not fully understand. 

_I’ll burn the heart out of you…_

Seven words. Twenty-two letters. Yet, that is all it takes for the “great Sherlock Holmes” to break. My eyes flick to John, standing with his back to me as he busies himself with tea bags and spoonfuls of sugar and it’s in that moment that I realise the gravity of what is before me. It’s the thought of his scent, the gentle softness of the little hairs at the nape of his neck, the memory of the warmth of his skin that brings me face to face with the harsh realities of love. 

This is how I know what I have to do — when I know that I must die so that he doesn’t have to. I knew this would happen. Deep down, I knew. I let sentiment get the better of me without ever once realising what it would cost. Like a fool, I’d believed myself to be above it all, but it’s true what they say: _‘Pride always comes before the fall’_... 


	4. The Empty Hearse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I see him sitting there, that small black box on the table in front of him, I deduce exactly what his intentions are. And if I were a better man, I would walk away; leave them to continue their evening in peace. 
> 
> I am not a better man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know you've all been waiting quite a while for this one but we hope it's well worth the wait!! ♥️ Thank you for sticking with us and being so patient!! We are so excited with the way this fic has been received and are grateful to you all for reading!! 🥰

I deserved it. Truly, I did. Two years without contact. Two years without any explanation. Two long and disparaging years filled with grief and sorrow that I never knew he felt. Why would I? It wasn't like we had ever discussed the emotional side of things before my… before I… I honestly don't know what to say when I think of it. Whatever I call it will never make up for what I did to him, but it doesn't matter now. The point is that I deserve the beating that he gave me. In truth, I probably deserve much more than that, but John has always been the type to hold back even when everyone else knows he shouldn't.

I'd been expecting this. Oh, I had lied to Mycroft, pretending I thought everything would go back to normal, but I knew we would be far from it. I had realised that John would be angry; I knew that the relationship we'd had before would have changed. But I never understood just how different things would be. There was still a part of me that longed for more. There had been hope; that singular kiss in the inn had been a promise of something deeper, the tentative dip of a toe into water. All the way to the restaurant, I told myself that once John got over the fact I had lied, once he understood that I had only died for him, then perhaps we could be more. 

But the one thing I hadn't anticipated, the singular fact I hadn't been prepared for, was her. Of all the scenarios I had pictured, I had not factored in the possibility that he might meet someone new. That he would have left this life behind, content to become a domestic husband. Because that isn't him. That isn't the John Watson I know. 

As I walk into the restaurant, I know what is about to happen. When I see him sitting there, that small black box on the table in front of him, I deduce exactly what his intentions are. And if I were a better man, I would walk away; leave them to continue their evening in peace. 

I am not a better man. 

An untimely introduction; an inappropriate joke at the expense of John's facial hair; a furious fist in my face. That is how the evening goes. We hop, venue to venue, neither of us bridging the gap, unable to fully explain our points of view. All the while, she sits and watches, an unwelcome spectator to our pain. 

There's something not right, some part of her I can't quite put my finger on, but in the heat of the moment, I can't work out what it is. It's unimportant. 

She is unimportant.

Or at least, she should be, but I fell. I fell to save him, and she replaced me. A woman to fill the void. Even if he doesn't, I know that his attraction isn't restricted to one gender, but it still stings to see that he chose her, when he could have had me. 

If I had known, would I have returned earlier? No. Maybe. It's hard to say anymore. John has bled into every thought, every fibre of my being. I can't think of anything without the thought starting and ending with him. It's obscene. It kept me going, whilst I was gone, to have him so close, pretend that what we had in those last few months bordered on something more, but I can't tell anymore. Reality and fantasy have melded together, but at least it makes sense now; Mycroft's evasiveness whenever I had asked after John. He was protecting me, because he knew I couldn't maintain myself without the illusion of his love. 

Was I vulnerable on my travels? Of course… I do not fault John for seeking companionship in my absence. There were others for me as well. Nameless men in dark corners of the world, but they could never compare. It was transactional — pure mathematical pleasure, unlike John. He can deny it all he wants, but we know each other. We understood enough to bring the other to the brink and keep them there, begging to be released. It wasn't until now, with time and distance, that I realise how emotional it all actually was. How far from John's intentions we had strayed. 

If I try hard enough, I can kid myself that this was where we were headed — that John was finally succumbing to himself, accepting his dual identity. Sometimes as if we were on the cusp of something more. 

Obviously not. 

*

I head back to Baker Street alone. This was not what I had hoped for tonight. I had imagined greeting Mrs Hudson as a pair, declaring that we were coming back to Baker Street together, no matter what that entailed. Instead, I greet her alone, before retreating to the flat. 

It is the same as when I left. Every sheet of paper, every box of evidence and cold case files, even my last experiment has been left untouched. The Petri dishes have been thrown out, but everything else is the same, right down to the microscope on the kitchen table, turned to the same lens I'd been using years before. 

I take a dry cloth from the drawer and begin to wipe it down, removing the thick layer of dust that had coated the arm. I should have asked Mycroft to take care of it. Although, I had asked him to take care of John and look at what happened. 

Once the microscope has been cleaned and packed away, I move onto the rest of the kitchen. There is a skin of dust over everything, visibly marking the passage of time. There were moments, whilst running from or towards danger, when I had not expected to make it home. There was more than one night where I had curled up on the floor, convinced that I was never going to step foot on English soil again. That I'd never get a chance to make things right with John. But here I am.

I throw the windows open and vacuum every surface, pausing a few times to empty the canister. It's cathartic, working my way through the flat, wiping away the evidence that this place hasn't been lived in for years. I hadn't expected John to move out. Perhaps I should have, given the dread rising in me at the prospect of being here alone. This isn't my flat, it's ours, and it's unsettling being here by myself. Knowing that John isn't just in the next room. 

I'm halfway through changing the bedsheets when there is a tentative knock at the door. At first, I think it might be Mrs Hudson, but she would have walked straight in. I dump the dirty pillowcases in the laundry basket as I pass, and my stomach leaps as I open the door. 

John. 

He's seething. I can see it in his eyes — all the hurt and anger mixed with some pent up nameless emotion that I've yet to identify, even after all this time. It's not something I can fully grasp, but it's there all the same, just as it always was, bubbling beneath the surface and giving me a feeling in return that I can't seem to push away no matter how hard I try. The look he's giving me isn't as possessive as it used to be; no, this time, it's different. There's something new there, something etched deep into his features, something almost broken. Have his eyes always looked this sunken in?

His mouth opens and closes several times, and it makes my stomach lurch. I can only imagine what I've put him through, how he must have felt being kept in the dark like that. Even if I had been surprised by the violence that had manifested, I should have anticipated the fallout. I want to apologise, tell him I'm sorry for everything. For all of the heartache and misery that I've caused him, but I can't. We don't have that sort of connection, and we certainly don't talk about emotions; we never have, so why start now?

"I'm not good at this sort of stuff," John finally chokes out, confirming my assumptions. It's the response I've grown to expect from him, but it only puzzles me even more. If this is all he can say, I can't for the life of me understand why he's even here at all.

Taking a deep breath, I dip my head to acknowledge his discomfort with the situation. "I know," I begin, my lips forming a thin line that's more of a grimace than a smile, but I try to push away my own emotions; this isn't about me. "But, if you came here to ask my forgiveness, consider it unnecessary. I know what I did was wrong, and I know that it must have caused you so much —"

"Nope," John cuts me off, his words sharp but weak as he pushes his way inside. He's shaking his head and eyeing me intently, but I can't work out what's happening. "No, we're not —" His voice cracks but he tries again. "You're not —" A shallow breath cuts this attempt short and he sucks in a deep breath through his nose, his gaze hardening as his nostrils flare and the fingers of his left hand curl and uncurl tellingly. "Not like this," he finally manages. I'm still not sure what he's getting at, but I don't have the courage to speak again. I've never seen him like this, so out of sync with himself, as if his entire world has been upended.

Then again, I suppose it has. 

The thought dawns on me a moment too late, however, and I don't have time to analyse it before John's body slams into mine. I brace for the impact, flinching in anticipation of yet another fist to the face, but it never comes. John's lips cover mine in a searing kiss instead, nipping and lapping at my bottom lip as his fingers curl into the collar of my bloodstained shirt.

It's all happening so fast, the sudden change from violence to what I want to believe is passion, but I don't allow myself to get too caught up in it. My back hits the decorative wall behind me and I gasp in surprise. With the exception of John's newly-acquired moustache, it's all very reminiscent of that first night. Lips and hands roving over hardened muscle and exposed skin, kissing and touching with a sense of urgency, but this time experience takes the lead. 

The tails of my shirt are already untucked as John's hands move to the front of my trousers, expertly manoeuvring me out of them without hesitation. It's a devastatingly easy process. I should be ashamed of how easily I'm melting for him, but there isn't anything I can do to overcome it, nor do I want to, if I'm honest with myself. The familiar drag of those calloused fingertips over the silk fabric of my pants sends a shiver down my spine and I can't help the moan that escapes my lips. 

Everything between us seems to come rushing back, slotting easily into place. Groin slides against groin, erections meeting through layers of fabric, settling into a needy rhythm accented with eager huffs of ecstasy. My fingers work effortlessly to free his belt before trailing down to his zip and I'm surprised at the sudden 'riiiip' that echoes in the quiet sitting room as John's impatience wins the battle with my shirt. Buttons scatter in all directions, clattering to the floor and ricocheting off of various objects with an exciting vigour, and for a moment, it's almost as if I had never left… until his hands find the devastation that now covers my back and sides.

"Sherlock?" he asks, breaking the pattern of our past and dragging me back to reality. His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, but the weight that it carries speaks volumes. We've never talked during an encounter and, in my mind, this is uncharted territory. The heat of the moment fizzles out much like a candle in the wind, my stuttering heartbeat the only sound left to echo in the quiet of the room.

I swallow thickly, battling the demons fighting to break free inside of me. He can't know; I don't want to put this on him if I don't have to. I've done enough as it is. "John, don't —" I begin, but it's no use. He's already gripping my hips, manhandling me into a position to turn me into the light so he can see. 

The fabric of my shirt rustles softly as it's pushed to the floor and I hear a rough, strangled sound catch in the back of his throat. It's strange really, having the evidence of my torture on display like this, but I don't feel as exposed as I usually would. Perhaps it's the years of familiarity between us, or maybe even the more recent physical and emotional developments coming into play, but either way, it isn't as awkward as I would have imagined. 

Still, I'm surprised when he doesn't leave. 

His fingertips brush over the gnarled skin at my shoulder blade and I shiver slightly. It's the deepest, most prominent scar that he's decided to fixate on. The one that runs from the top of my shoulder to the edge of my spine, the price I paid for a sarcastic comment made to a man wielding a knife. John's fingers trace the rough edges of the scar, and I wince uncomfortably. It's clear that he's gauging the seriousness of the wound and I can tell he's slightly alarmed at the severity of my injuries. 

"Sherlock, what did they —" the words die on his tongue and he pauses, clearly at odds with himself before clearing his throat. "Nevermind, don't answer that…"

Of course… He doesn't need to know the horrors I've faced and I'm grateful that I don't have to answer the questions. I wouldn't know where to start anyway. 

His callouses catch slightly on the rough edges of my scars as he lets his hand drop back down to his side, but I don't move. I stay silent, unsure of what's supposed to happen next. I hadn't expected him to find out like this. If I'm honest, I'd never expected him to find out at all. I'd never once given my own condition much thought beyond the intense and burning desire to return home to him, so in the moment, I'm at a loss. What's supposed to happen now that he knows? Now that he's seen? 

I wrack my brain for a moment but I don't have to wonder for very long. In true John Watson fashion, he's a step ahead of me, throwing everything I considered to be possible into disarray. His fingers intertwine with mine, and I'm reasonably sure my confusion is clear as glass on my face, but he gives nothing away. His expression is blank, a thin veil of assurance the only visible hint to what he's thinking.

With a gentle tug of my hand, he casts his gaze up the stairs leading up to his old bedroom and my heart nearly stops. In all our messing about, we've never once crossed the threshold into his room. Every encounter, every kiss, every touch has taken place elsewhere in what I always assumed to be a more neutral environment for him. If the incidents occur outside of his bed, they are more easily swept away. Out of sight, out of mind, if you will. He may not live here anymore, but I can't ignore the significance of what is being offered to me.

I swallow thickly, a silent nod my only acknowledgement of his invitation. As we climb the stairs, my thoughts flutter briefly to the woman — Mary — from the restaurant. Her blue eyes blaze in the back of my mind, judging me for whatever it is that I am about to partake in, but I close my eyes and will her disapproval away. Deep down, I know that she doesn't understand the complexity of my relationship with John. I know she isn't aware of the intimacy we've shared, but still, she threatens everything I've fought my way back for. 

Though inexperienced as I am in the ways of love, I am still hyper-aware that tonight is my one fleeting chance to reclaim John Watson, and I aim to take it. If I fail, then life will go on and I will deal with the emotional damages that befall me without complaint. If I succeed…? 

Oh, God, if I succeed…

As much as I am tempted, I do not let my mind entertain anything further concerning success. What is meant to be will be, and I have to maintain my wits even if it's difficult with John's hands moving over my hips, caressing my skin as we enter the room. He leads me over to the unused bed and makes quick work of my trousers, shoving them further down before prompting me to step out of them. 

My brain fights to bring me back to my senses but I have to let go of my fears. If I have any hope at all of recovering what we've lost, I can't allow my walls to spring back up in an act of premature defence when I am the only one in the wrong. I have to let him back in, even if it kills me. I have to press myself to obey his silent command, even if it means doing so with closed eyes. The feeling it gives me to know that I am unable to meet his gaze for fear of falling deeper under his spell is terrifying, but I lock it away as we fall together. 

In one fluid motion, he lowers me onto the bed, turning me gently. It comes as a surprise at first when I find myself on my belly, but John follows suit fairly quickly, covering my naked body with his own. The closeness is intense at first, triggering a fight or flight response that I didn't know I possessed, before the first brush of his lips sends a shock straight through the epicentre of my soul.

He's focused on the same wound as before, his lips moving with reverence and surety, setting every one of my senses on fire. It's maddening, the way he kisses his way over every visible inch of the scars covering the vast expanse of my torso, and I find that I can barely breathe. The intimacy of what he's doing threatens to overthrow every sensibility I have left in me, but I don't allow myself to run from it. Instead, I press back against him, squeezing my eyes shut tight as tears well up from somewhere deep inside me.

I had no idea that he was capable of drawing such overwhelming emotion from me. He had always been good at drawing on the more personal matters with women — that was plenty obvious, but this… this is something else entirely. The way his lips move over my skin, whispering beautiful promises of protection into every mark on my body as he works his way down, lights a fire in my soul the likes of which I had never thought possible. Every move he makes leaves me whining and melting beneath his every touch; every breath he steals from my lungs only leaves me wishing that I had more to give.

A gentle tap to my hip signals his desire for more and I'm happy to oblige. I move to roll over, to bury my face into his neck like I'd done all those times before, but he caresses my shoulder. He's easing me back down onto my belly and the soft click of the lubricant bottle makes me flush. I hadn't even noticed that he'd pulled it from the drawer but I arch my back nonetheless, pressing my arse up into his hand as his fingers drift down to work me open.

He takes his time preparing me for his final intentions, coaxing broken whimpers and guttering moans from my lips before finally pressing into me with a breathy moan of his own. It's slow and careful this time, an honourable act in the midst of all of the indecency that lies between us, and it's unlike anything I've ever experienced. His arms are wrapped around me, holding me close. The insatiable hunger and bruising possessiveness have faded, leaving in its wake a devastatingly raw and passionate intensity that I can't explain. He's a force to be reckoned with like this with the slow but steady pace of his hips combined with the deep and sensual slide of his lips against mine. It's more than I ever thought I'd have the good fortune of knowing, but I have to confess that it only leaves me with one earth-shattering conclusion: the way John Watson fucks is nothing compared to the way that he makes love. 

His lips are at my ear, his moustache tickling my skin and he's whispering words I can't comprehend, breaking through even the deepest of boundaries and rewriting the very foundations of my Mind Palace as every thrust of his hips takes me apart. He's never spoken like this before, preferring to stay silent during our encounters but I find that I can't even bring myself to focus on the significance of it. He's moaning and kissing every inch of my skin within his reach and, after what feels like hours, his rhythm begins to falter. My own erection is trapped between my body and the mattress, the perfect combination of friction and pressure, and I can't hold back my tears any longer. Everything he's doing to me triggers an otherworldly emotion, welding our souls together with an unbreakable vow in the stillness of the night. 

He's beautiful like this, breathtaking even though I can't see him properly, and when he finally comes, I feel every inch of my body surrendering to the push and pull of his very existence. The broken whine that rips through him shatters me completely, and I lose myself to the intensity of his pulsing cock. Following him over the edge, I find that I am no longer my own man. I do not know where he ends and I begin, but I find that it doesn't matter. It will never matter as long as I have him in my life. If every aspect of John Watson consumes me completely, leaving no trace behind of the man I used to be, then so be it. If I were to die tonight, wrapped in the tender embrace of the man I love — the only person in the world I could ever have the desire to die for, then I will die knowing my life had a purpose. I will die with my heart on my sleeve and with every emotion I've ever kept hidden laid bare at his feet. I will die knowing that I have finally found the only thing in life truly with living for, and that will be more than enough for me.

*

Daylight has barely broken by the time I wake the next morning, and it doesn't take long for me to realise that he's gone. Another outcome I didn't see coming but should have expected. Memories of the night before are hazier this time, almost as if I'm coming down from a high. I know it's just my overprotective subconscious throwing up walls, once again blocking out the more mentally invasive bits to keep me from endangering myself any further than I have before. 

He's gone back to her. I know he has without even having to speculate. Whether it's the fear of his own identity or the fear of the inevitable heartache that comes from being with me that drives him back, I'll never know, but it still eats at me. The very core of it chips away at my soul like a degenerative disease. Even as I muddle through the motions of civilian life, trying in vain to come up with some semblance of a morning routine — shower, breakfast, tea, I find that I'm struggling to accept the end result. Is this really how my almost-relationship with John Watson ends? Is this truly all that we are ever meant to be?

I'm stirring sugar into a cup of tea when Mrs Hudson joins me. It's evident that she knows what's happened but she doesn't seem to know how to broach the subject of my emotional state. I consider leaving her in the shadows, maintaining some sense of pride in my current predicament, but my insecurities are too vulnerable for silence. 

"John's getting married," I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. It's odd, hearing it put so bluntly in my own words and the once everlasting strength of my usually well-composed visage begins to shatter on the surface. The meaning cuts deep into my chest, carving out deep crevices of pain in places I never knew could hurt. The torment and torture of Serbia pale in comparison to this.

Mrs Hudson's arms envelop me in an instant, encircling me to the best of her abilities as I feel the pillars of my very existence crumbling all around me. "I know, love," she whispers through my sobs, "I know." It's comforting and devastating all at once to hear the resignation in her voice, but there's nothing else left to say. Nothing either of us says or does can change the situation. Even with everything else that we've been through, the vulnerability of my love for John Watson will never be enough to keep him. His mind has been made up; he's made his decision and it isn't me… nor will it ever be.


End file.
